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Losing the Sundowner
by
Stephen Ausherman
Ricky came in last again today. He scoots into our horseshoe booth and grabs a handful of cocktail peanuts. I ask him how the slots were treating him and he just grins like an idiot, like that's going to make me think he got lucky. He wouldn't be stuffing his face with cocktail peanuts if he got lucky. Besides, he's never won a damn thing in his life. Ricky's the eighth caller when caller nine wins the tickets, and he's the one who feeds so many quarters into the slot machines that it's ready to barf up the jackpot by the time you get to it. That's why he's good to have around. Makes the odds better for the rest of us. "Hey Ricky. Ricky!" Jack says. "Stop hogging the peanuts." "I got to," he replies. "Gin alone is only half a meal." That's when I break the news to him: "Leo says he's cutting us off. No more free peanuts." "It's like he wants us gone," Ricky says, genuinely worried. "We're losing our lounge." Ricky's the last to figure that out, but first to say it out loud. Jack and I have known for months. We don't fit in anymore. Our Filipino leisure wear has gone in and out of style twice since we started patronizing the Sundowner, and everybody else just seems to get younger and meaner. "Leo likes the clowns," I tell him. "They've always got plenty of cash handy. And they don't just tip. They tip big." Ricky starts whining about that ain't right. "We been here for twenty years." He says that like it's a good thing. "And I'll tell you what: These punks coming in here with their packages and their hundred-dollar sneakers, they don't need to be here." He chomps the olive off his swizzle stick. "Keep your voice down," Jack warns him. "They're probably packing hardware." I stare past him at the mural on the wall: Palm trees framing a sunset over the ocean, seagulls hovering over gentle waves. I can't get my mind around the fact that I've been staring at this heinous art for twenty years. I'll admit it's effective inspiration for devising plans that will get us out of Albuquerque. That old sun, low as it may be, is still bright enough to illuminate our destiny. It's helped me come up with fresh ideas, like one about a new wagering sport--something like pro wrestling, only underwater. I call it: Wrescuba! Jack once watched that sun and thought up a new Saturday morning cartoon based on Peyton Place. He keeps saying he'll be the art director, but all he's done is draw naked ladies on cocktail napkins. And Ricky, well, he has his lucky quarters. Quarters to make the ninth phone call and quarters to empty the slots. For twenty years we dreamt up ways to get rich quick, and in all that time not one of us has seen a real ocean. Ricky says to me, "Let me borrow a quarter." I fish one out of my pocket, then reconsider. "You know, Ricky, you couldn't win one thin dime with a quarter." Jack says, "C'mon. It's only a quarter." And Ricky's looking at me the way a dog watches you eat. I flip the quarter over to him, asking, "What do you want with a quarter here anyway?" He snatches it out of the air and slides out of the vinyl booth in one quick motion. "I'm gonna get me some red pistachios," he says. Takes me a moment to figure out he's got a hankering for the nuts in the gumball machine next to the men's room. I bet Jack: "Ten bucks says he pukes them up." "No deal." He knows as well as I that those pistachios have been rotting for years back there. "It'll be your fault for making me give him my last quarter." "Maybe he'll wise up before he stuffs them in his mouth," he replies, shuffling around the table to keep an eye on him. I gaze off into the ocean blue and wait for brilliance to strike. "You know what we need," I say, thinking out loud, "is some kind of swimming monkey, one that'll fetch us coins from fountains and storm drains." Jack's not listening. He's staring past me and his jaw's gone tight. He whispers through his teeth: "Looks like Ricky's got his hand stuck in the machine. What's worse is one of those roughnecks is sneaking up behind him." I shift around to see Ricky snapping at this clown and pointing at us. The clown backs away. He's got those hundred-dollar sneakers and a gym bag that probably contains all kinds of shanks and hardware, but he retreats from Ricky like an oft-whipped dog. Problem is, he's bearing down on us now. I turn back to my glass. "What's he doing?" I ask Jack. Jack braces against the vinyl. "Staring dead at me." I peer down the edge of my glass, fixing my eyes on a gull. Ice chatters against my teeth and I feel a breeze as the clown glides by. He bowls the bag under our table and scurries off into daylight without slowing down or looking back. Ricky suddenly appears at my side, bumping me down a seat. "That was funny," he says. "Couldn't get pistachios out of the machine because this was jamming up the gears." He slaps his hand on the table and lifts it to reveal a short silver key. "What'd the roughneck want?" Jack asks. Ricky's mouth opens with a perplexed grin. "You, of course." He can see we're not following so he explains: "He comes skulking up behind me and says, 'It's all here.' Then he goes, 'We straight now, Jack?' So told him he got it wrong, that he needed to see you." I hoist the bag onto the seat next to me. It's heavier than I expected. Inside is a metal box with a built-in lock. The silver key fits. Ricky chews on his ice and adds, "Then I told him to stay the hell out of our place from now on." Jack rubs his forehead. "I don't get it. What could he possibly want with me?" Daylight leaks back to our booth as a tall clown struts into the lounge. He's wearing sunglasses and a hairnet. And, oh yes, hundred-dollar sneakers. Yet once the door shuts behind him, he walks like he needs to pee. "These punks ain't so tough," Ricky gloats. "I think we can scare them all off and keep the Sundowner for ourselves." I peek into the box, then snap it shut. Glancing over my shoulder, I see the tall clown fiddling with the pistachio machine as though he's hungrier than Ricky. He's scanning the room and choking the machine with quarters. I am trying to act natural and struggling for the words to keep up this appearance. "Screw that," I say. "If Leo doesn't want our money, then screw him and his whole lounge." I hear the knob cranking and the metal flap clinking and nuts rattling inside. Ricky's grin slackens. "Then where are we going to drink?" "Hollywood," I suggest. "As in California?" Jack asks. I nod and raise my glass. "To losing the Sundowner," I say. "Today we walk out that door for the last time ever," I tell them. "After that, I promise you nothing will be the same." Our empty glasses click together. It's the sound of our future, our friendship, our brilliant minds. Always clicking together. And our destiny, it's waiting for us outside in the blazing daylight. |
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